


How to Tame Your Dragon

by Mad_Maudlin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Collars, D/s themes, Dragons, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Magic AU, Mindfuck, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-08
Updated: 2011-08-08
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:12:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Maudlin/pseuds/Mad_Maudlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sorcerer!Sherlock sets out to trap himself a pet dragon. Said dragon turns out to be far more interesting than he initially anticipated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Tame Your Dragon

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/10038.html?thread=52718902#t52718902) at the Sherlock kink meme, and thank god it got other fills because this one took off on me. The file on my hard drive is called "stockholm syndrome" for a reason.

Sherlock had been camping in the mountains for six weeks before he found a suitable dragon. The literature had suggested that it would be difficult, but by his estimate the literature was three parts myth to one part hysterical exaggeration, so he tried not to let it influence his theories overmuch. He spent hours searching, both the crags above the treeline and the alpine valleys, attentive to the evidence—footprints, claw marks, noxious pellets the size of his fist and hard, metallic scales embedded in trees or shed at the bottom of rocks. He was above all patient; contrary to Mycroft's accusations, he'd never expected this to be the _easy_ part.

When he finally found one—observed from a distance with a small spyglass—he was pleased to see that the major anatomy corresponded nicely with the written records. Good to know the wise men of ages past had not been completely delusional. The dragon on the rock above was a gray-green color, like old copper, and Sherlock noted the vanes on its tail, the visible blood vessels in the vanes of its wings, the spur-like digit on the wing joint, the boney plate across the dome of the skull—scute, the last was called, after the shields wild men had once made of it. He managed a quick sketch before the dragon flew away.

After that first one, the sightings were more frequent, though still sparse—still, Sherlock hadn't expected to come upon any sort of nest of the things. In fact, he probably would not have survived if he had—they were not the behemoths of legend, true, but the smallest adults were still the size of a draft horse and quick as serpents. Rather, by identifying the ideal hunting grounds and sunning territory, he was able to plan his movements with more efficiency, and soon was lucky enough to stumble upon one every three or four days.

Almost all of which, naturally, were _useless_ for what he meant to do.

He discounted the females out of hand; they were too large and too aggressive, quick to spew flame at each other or anything else that proved more irritating than potentially edible. He would never train one of those to accept a saddle and doubted he could sit one comfortably if he did. Anyway he couldn't take the risk that he might inadvertently choose a broody one; one dragon would be a useful addition to his household, but a clutch of them would be a nuisance and a threat. He considered a few juveniles as well, in case those would be easier to master, but he had no idea how long they would take to mature to rideable size or what their adult dimensions might be like: even the males could vary in height by up to a foot as adults. Impractical.

There were several males living in a sort of colony on the upper slopes of the mountain, which proved that dragons had some social skills, and Sherlock observed them carefully from the cover of air and darkness to get their measure. They generally never gathered in groups of more than three at a time, and two or three of the largest almost always kicked off with a squabble—snapping at one another or head-butting like mountain sheep, taking the blows directly on the scute rather than with the horns that curled away from it. Other males, older or smaller, were actively submissive to this group: several times Sherlock saw one of them lie flat on its belly and let a more aggressive male bite the base of it neck, just under the back edge of the scute, and soon he could recognize the distinct marks this treatment left.

He debated for a long time whether a such a submissive dragon might be the best choice, if it wasn't already tame to the point of cravenness; but then again, part of the appeal of a riding around the kingdom on a dragon in the first place was the ability to train it to _selected_ aggression. Frankly, if it wasn't going to bite on command, he wasn't interested, and he would hate to go through the trouble of trapping a dragon if it turned out to be high-strung or cowardly.

Snow fell, and he dared creep deep into the dark depths of caves, where he found a clutch of eggs: eight of them, faceted like gemstones and hot to the touch. If he raised the dragon from a hatchling, he surely could _make_ it whatever sort of creature he wanted...but he had heard of eagles raised from eggs who were clumsy in the air and aggressive with their handlers, whereas the wild-caught birds were calm and biddable. Besides, by the time a hatchling dragon was mature enough to ride, he'd likely be bored of the idea, and out a fortune in fodder in the interim. And though the clutch had no sign of adult dragon presence less than six months old, he didn't know enough about dragon life cycles to anticipate how to care for a hatchling, what special needs it might have beyond a meaty diet.

No, he needed one already full-grown, small enough to sit astride but large enough to bear him, neither mindlessly aggressive nor spinelessly weak.

 _Perhaps you should pick out a color in advance as well,_ he could imagine Mycroft saying—Mycroft had thought Sherlock's whole plan to be ludicrous vanity, and advised him that the queen had plans to exterminate the dragons in these mountains anyway. Which was why Sherlock was here in the early winter, with every day growing colder around him, waiting to find a dragon that he could make his own.

-\\-\\-\\-\\-

And then one morning, he found fresh dragon tracks on the ground: just large enough to be interesting and crisply fresh. Sherlock called on air and darkness to hide him, and followed the tracks downstream, to one of the iced-over pools where he'd found deer and mountain goats drinking. Everything around him was still now, though, and as soon as he saw the shape of wings ahead, he climbed a tree to observe from above.

This dragon was on the small side, even for a male, but nicely muscled and sporting adult-sized horns. It had a lovely golden-brown hide, like highly polished brass, marred only by a raised, pale scar above its left foreleg, near the base of the wing. That was unfortunate: Sherlock had no use for a mount that was impaired. But on the other hand, this dragon had clearly taken on a worthy opponent and survived, despite its size. It was too small to stand up to the dominant males in the colony upslope, that was certain, but it hadn't submitted to them, either; there was no tell-tale mark on the back of its neck. Strong but even-tempered. Solitary.

"You are lovely, aren't you?" Sherlock murmured, as the dragon lapped from a steaming hole in the ice. Occasionally it exhaled forcefully, melting the hole a little larger, but didn't actually ignite. "I think you're mine."

-\\-\\-\\-\\-

Once he'd chosen his dragon, it was ridiculously simple to catch. Sherlock tracked it back to its den—a jumble of rocks it barely fit into, honestly, he was doing it a favor by taking it in. While it dozed, he scratched runes onto the trees and stones, writing sleep and stillness into the very air. It was a short round-trip back to his campsite to fetch the bindings he'd already prepared.

The dragon woke when Sherlock threw the straps over it, which was already far too late. The leather moved to his will, tangling and twining around the dragon's legs, pinning flat its wings, looping tightly around its jaws and binding them shut. Its screeching was nearly deafening, and it thrashed so violently that Sherlock began to worry that it was going to hurt itself; he stretched out a hand, and with a word, hoisted the whole creature a good foot off the ground.

"You ought not to struggle," he told it, standing as close as he dared. The dragon stopped tossing its head and looked at him, upside-down, golden eyes narrow and glaring. "I've taught the bindings to tighten by themselves, so you can't even work yourself loose. And I'd much rather you didn't injure yourself, you're useless to me lame."

It growled at him, almost as if it understood, and pulled back its lips to hiss fire—but Sherlock had anticipated that, and all that emerged was a mist of noxious fluid. Defeated, the dragon went still.

Sherlock grinned. "Good boy. I think we're going to get along famously."

-\\-\\-\\-\\-

He had even prepared for the return journey: transporting a belligerent dragon overland was a pointless hassle, not to mention likely to attract far too much attention (particularly if the queen was serious about the extermination option). Instead he wrote a circle into the snow, the mate of the one he'd prepared weeks earlier in the cellar at Baker Street, and together he and his dragon stepped between shadows. (Well, he stepped; the dragon, naturally, had to be pushed.)

Mrs. Hudson had kept the house nice and warm, and Sherlock had installed bars in the cellar as thick as his forearm, running from floor to ceiling, to create a secure cell of the appropriate size. He stepped through them by magic, leaving his dragon bound on the floor for the moment.

Mrs. Hudson was in vapors over his unannounced return, of course, and he had to shoo her away while he retrieved the last necessary item from his workshop: a leather collar, wide and heavy, with several bronze d-rings set into the exterior surface. The inner surface was written thickly with runes, as many as he dared use: runes of binding, of compulsion, of control. He had researched extensively how a falconer might wake a haggard, essentially torturing it until it broke to his hand, and the whole thing seemed extraordinarily boring. He would still have to train the dragon to submit to him, but the collar would shorten the whole process considerably.

Sherlock bounded back down to the cellar, carrying the collar over his shoulder. What he found on the other side of the bars made him stop in his tracks.

A man lay on his side, bound in leather straps. He was perfectly naked, and every inch of his skin was tanned an even golden-brown; the straps were twined around his legs, and kept his arms bent in front of him with lines that criss-crossed over his back. He was not a tall man, but fit and healthy, save for a thick, raised scar across his left shoulder blade; and when Sherlock stepped through the bars again, he found familiar golden eyes glaring at him from under a fringe of dark blond hair.

Every thought of having a flying mount by midsummer flew out of his mind as he knelt in front of his new discovery. "Extraordinary," he murmured, and traced the edge of the strap across the man's—the dragon's—mouth. "Oh, you are simply _extraordinary."_

-\\-\\-\\-\\-

It took three days to remake the collar, though in Sherlock's defense he wasn't exactly concentrating on it. None of the dragonlore he'd studied had made any reference whatsoever to dragons that could change their shape, much less transform into men, and he felt new justification for his original assertion that all the authors were idiots.

During that time, his dragon did not speak, but it did attempt to bite him when he released the strap over its mouth, and often kicked at him feebly when he was in range. It couldn't change back, because Sherlock had taught the straps only to tighten, never to yield; in fact, several times a day he had to pop down to the cellar to ensure the dragon hadn't managed to tighten any one strap to the point of suffocating itself or cutting off circulation. This gave him a chance to study its human shape up close: broad shoulders, wide hands, straight strong legs and a long nose. Its skin was surprisingly soft to the touch, and far warmer than a real human's would ever be; it was almost totally hairless, except for its head and the patch between its legs. Not beautiful in a conventional sense, but solid, well-made, and at the moment, completely at Sherlock's mercy.

The dragon didn't seem to mind its nudity terribly much, and after a while even learned to go still and submit to the necessary adjustments of the straps. And if Sherlock's fingers strayed from his task, to explore and caress all that soft skin and the lightly defined muscle underneath—well, more often than not he earned himself a kick, or the dragon began to thrash about until the straps were tighter than ever. But not always. Not always right away. And that was perhaps the most intriguing thing of all.

So Sherlock went back to his research, and to the new collar, and deep thoughts of what he might to do with a dragon in man's skin. It was little wonder that work progressed exceedingly slowly.

-\\-\\-\\-\\-

The new collar was essentially identical to the old one, only smaller, and when Sherlock wrapped it around his dragon's throat, the ends melted together to form an unbroken band of leather. He spoke the word that release the straps, and the dragon scrambled to its feet, facing him, hands loosely curled into fists. "Go on, then," Sherlock said, spreading his arms wide. "Have a go. Just to see how it works."

The dragon didn't move. Couldn't move, actually, because of the obedience written into the collar, for all it clearly wanted to rush at him. It still snarled at him, and Sherlock grinned triumphantly.

He fed the dragon straight away—while it was bound, he hadn't dared put a hand near its mouth, so it had been watered wine and broth lapped from a bowl. Now he presented it with a choice of bread, roasted chicken or raw beef, and was utterly unsurprised that the bloody meat was its first choice. It must've been starving, but Sherlock noted that it approached the tray warily and ate lightly, sniffing at each individual piece and discarding a few for no reason he could identify. It stood again when it was done, back straight and shoulders square.

"You are a puzzle," Sherlock said, studying his dragon. The straps had chafed somewhat, leaving an array of pink lines across its skin, but it didn't appear to be in any pain. When Sherlock reached out to touch one of the lines, the dragon growled lowly; the collar kept it from lashing out at Sherlock, but didn't stop it from stepping away from his hand.

Sherlock could've stopped it—could have willed it to stillness while he investigated to his heart's content—but for now he let it be. There would be plenty of time for exploration later. "Come on," he said, backing up the words with a burst of his will. "I'll show you to your room."

-\\-\\-\\-\\-

"Did you ever find a dragon on your little expedition?" Mycroft asked, faux-innocent over tea.

"I found something far more interesting," Sherlock said, which was true, and made Mycroft raise an eyebrow at him.

"The queen has begun preparing to drive the dragons out of the mountains," Mycroft continued after a heavy pause. "The expedition will leave in the spring."

"Hmmm. That would be fascinating if I cared."

The only dragon Sherlock was interested in was sitting on the roof, barefoot and shirtless, once Mycroft had been chased away. Even getting him into trousers had required recourse to the collar, and Sherlock would not have minded the nudity personally, but Mrs. Hudson wouldn't stand for it-- _he's a fit enough young man, but it's just common decency,_ she'd declared. The dragon also did not seem particularly interested in the room Sherlock had prepared for him, but rather could usually be found restlessly slinking about the house and grounds. God only knew when or where he actually slept.

Sherlock, however, knew at least one of his secrets, and it was high time he addressed it. He sat beside his dragon on the roof, and asked, "Why won't you speak?"

The dragon went still, his usual response to a threat; he couldn't attack Sherlock, but he never tried to run away unless Sherlock actually touched him. Mrs. Hudson's hugs and petting got much the same response, but she managed not to be offended—Sherlock had told her the dragon was an idiot he'd found on the streets. Now Sherlock watched the dragon's reactions as he continued, "I've been observing you, and it's obvious that you understand every word I say, even if you deliberately ignore most of them. Your interactions with Mrs. Hudson are even more telling. Moreover, my library has been disturbed, and since Mrs. Hudson doesn't clean there without my express consent, you are the only possible culprit. Thus, you are literate, which presupposes linguistic. You have no obvious physiological impediment for speaking in this form, so that leaves two options: that you have some manner of mental impairment, or you are being contrary."

The dragon actually had the nerve to smile at that.

Sherlock leaned forward. "You know that I could force you, if I wished."

"I know."

It was a pleasant tenor voice, a little hoarse from all the growling, and Sherlock couldn't help but grin at it. "Have you got a name, then, or shall I make one up for you?" he asked.

"Call me John," the dragon said, as if this was not ludicrous. Sherlock decided to accept this tentatively for now.

"Tell me, John, can all your kind change shape this way, or are you unique?"

John shrugged his tan shoulders, utterly unconcerned by the winter wind whipping over the city. "All of us can. Most of us don't. You lot are a bit useless without all your iron bits on, you know."

Sherlock didn't tell him that a load of useless humans with iron bits on would shortly attempt to exterminate his species. "You seem to favor books about medicine and healing magic." John didn't respond. "Nothing to say to that?"

"It wasn't a question, so no."

Oh, this was fun. Sherlock reached out and brushed his fingers over John's scarred shoulder, just to make him jump away. "What happened here, there?"

"An ax."

"Hmm. Wielded by a competent user, approximately six foot seven, using a two-handed grip, on an upswing originating from below your left wing. If he'd gotten a proper swing with it, he'd have taken your foreleg off, but you'd rushed him and he was too close to follow it through."

John looked at him with widened eyes, but didn't say anything. Fine.

Sherlock stood, and re-wrapped his cloak. "You are welcome to use the library, of course, but please stop dog-earing the arcane manuscripts. I'll also expect you to speak when spoken to."

"Yes, sir," John said, all dry defiance, but Sherlock found he rather liked the sound of it all the same.

-\\-\\-\\-\\-

At first, Sherlock suspected John was indulging in random acts of rebellion, which was irritating and tiresome; it took some time before he realized that the dragon was, after a fashion, testing his boundaries. He attempted several times to leave the grounds of the house, despite the collar-runes binding him to it; he ignored questions until Sherlock had to will the answer out of him word by word, and while he occasionally assisted Mrs. Hudson with the housekeeping he sometimes hid from Sherlock for hours, even days.

Not that Sherlock couldn't find him in a heartbeat, of course, and not that he didn't eventually submit when ordered. But there was a principle to the thing.

The tipping point came when Lestrade paid a visit, because he actually had a case for Sherlock, something worth investigating—a half-eaten prostitute found in the canal, and he was just reading through the descriptions of the tattoos on what was left of her limbs when John came through the sitting room with an armful of wood for the fire.

Lestrade blinked at the half-naked man with the leather collar, and because he had all the manners and breeding of a feral swine, said, "Er. Hello."

John just looked at him narrowly, and then at Sherlock. Sherlock sighed. "Lestrade, this is my servingman, John. He is utterly uncivilized and will bite you as soon as look at you. John, you may go."

But the flicker of attention he spared for John wasn't enough to send him running out the door—more of a gentle nudge, really. John loitered in the doorway, watching them, and Lestrade seemed increasingly nervous about him even as Sherlock pointed out the five signs that they were dealing with a specific abomination conjured by a very particular sorcerer. He sent Lestrade away, planning to summon and dispel the abomination himself by midnight, and thus he didn't quite see the exchange that took place in the sitting room door.

What he heard was Lestrade say, "A pleasure to--" and then a startled yelp. When Sherlock turned, Lestrade was clutching a hand to his chest and looking alarmed, while John had put his back to the wall and was growling openly. "He took a swing at me!" Lestrade protested.

"Fascinating," Sherlock said. "What did you do?"

"I—what?" Lestrade blinked, and then looked warily at John, who had stopped growling but was watching them both very carefully.

Sherlock sighed. "John, go to your room and wait for me there," he said crisply, putting the strength of his will into the words, and John marched out of the room with a small snarl. Sherlock tugged on Lestrade's arm until the inspector revealed his hand, but aside from a few faint scratches from John's blunt human nails, there was no damage. "I repeat. How did you provoke him?"

"I tried to shake his hand," Lestrade said irately. "If that's provocation, you've got a lunatic for a valet."

"Did you touch him?" Sherlock asked. John, of course, couldn't even attempt to harm him, and had seemed unthreatened by Mrs. Hudson, but this was new data.

"I didn't even get near him," Lestrade grumbled.

"Interesting."

By the time he'd chivvied Lestrade away, it was already drawing close to nightfall, but Sherlock doubted he'd need much time to deal with the whore-eating abomination. Instead he went to John's chilly, empty bedroom, where John was standing straight and proud at the foot of the bed. "Why did you strike Lestrade?"

"He threatened me," John said crisply.

Aha. "He did nothing of the sort. He approached you with an open hand as a form of greeting. It's something humans do."

"You don't," John said. "Not with Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson or the other one you're always yelling at."

Oh, this was brilliant, far better than murder. John had been analyzing, categorizing, even if he'd got it all wrong-- "Mycroft is my brother and I despise him," Sherlock explained. "Lestrade is a longtime business associate and my social inferior, not that he notices. Mrs. Hudson is a woman and also my employee. Thus, the handshake is not an appropriate greeting. To Lestrade, you are an unfamiliar man who he will persist in attempting to treat as a social equal, so offering a handshake would be a form of friendly greeting, originally symbolic of the fact that neither of you is holding a weapon."

John's nostrils flared. "I'm not a man and I don't need any weapons."

"You belong to me and I will not have you treat my guests with hostility," Sherlock said, and with another burst of power called the riding crop up from the mud room. "Knees."

John didn't resist the collar this time, kneeling at the foot of the bed and bracing his arms against the mattress. Sherlock tested the crop in his hand and explained, "I will, of course, modify the protections on the collar to prevent you from harming others in the future. But you also need to be punished for the harm you've already done. Five strokes. Count them, please."

John did; he braced himself for it, and Sherlock drew blood on every blow, but John bore it quite stoically. He scarcely reacted, in fact, until Sherlock summoned a flannel and a bowl of water in the same manner as the crop, and knelt behind him.

"Not that wounds as shallow as these are likely to scar," he said, daubing the flannel against one thin streak of blood, "but I do attempt to care of my things."

John was tense and still, except for heavy, erratic breathing, and his hands were fisted in the sheets. "Don't," he blurted, causing Sherlock to hesitate.

"Don't what?" he prompted after a minute.

"Don't touch me," John said in a strangely breathy voice.

Interesting. "You are in no position to give orders," Sherlock reminded him, and resumed the treatment. "Now, keep still."

Cleaning and salving the wounds was the work of minutes, but John had begun to tremble minutely by the time Sherlock stood up. A beating hadn't broken his composure, but somehow a healing touch did? He lashed out at perceived aggression, but fled signs of affection? Sherlock gave John the freedom to move again, but John stayed where he was, forehead pressed to the sheets. "I will be in my workshop the rest of the night," Sherlock informed him. "Do not even attempt to enter until sunrise, or something extraordinarily nasty will probably eat you."

John didn't say anything, but Sherlock decided, this time, to let it slide.

-\\-\\-\\-\\-

John seemed sulky for days after the discipline, and skittish whenever Sherlock got too close; his back healed swiftly and cleanly but the nerves remained. There was something here that Sherlock was missing, and until the puzzle was solved, it eclipsed nearly all others.

Nearly all, because there was that incident with the royal assassin, and that was the one that provided the key to the other.

Sherlock was far, far too skilled of a sorcerer to be poisoned, so he had no compunctions about intercepting the dose meant for the queen. He could feel the oily toxins seep into his bloodstream even as he plucked the dart out of his palm, and it was a simple act of will to keep them confined there while he smiled broadly at the would-be regicide caught red-handed with the blowgun still in his hands. Lord Gregson had the man in irons within minutes. It was almost pathetic once Sherlock had worked out the code.

Except of course, when he stood up from the chair and the blood rushed away from his head. Only then did he think to check the dart for enchantments. "Oh, _fuck,"_ he declared, prompting a nervous titter from the crown princess as she was lead out.

Gregson seized Sherlock by the arm. "What's the matter, old boy? You look ill."

"An incisive observation," Sherlock snapped, but he couldn't put feeling into it; he quickly tried to summon a minor water element, enough to purge the taint from his blood, but the power flickered in his hands and wouldn't cohere. "I need my workshop. Immediately."

Gregson looked skeptical. "Dr. Stamford is the crown's own physician, I'm sure he would be delighted--"

"Home," Sherlock growled, doing a passable imitation of John. _"Now."_

By the time the carriage arrived at Baker Street, Sherlock could hardly stand on his own. Gregson helped him inside and called for Mrs. Hudson, but John was there first, half-naked and staring. "Don't be an idiot," Sherlock tried to tell him, but his speech was slurring and even summoning enough will to stay awake was becoming a challenge. "My workshop. Help me."

He hadn't put any power into the words, but John came to him anyway and lifted him almost effortlessly out of the chair, despite the disparity in their heights. Sherlock vaguely heard Mrs. Hudson and Gregson protest, but all his attention was now focused inwards, on maintaining his own breathing and heartbeat long enough to get to safety.

Up and up and up and did the house really have so many floors? Sherlock pressed his face against John's neck, soaking up the warmth and the strange spicy smell of him, not quite human no matter what shape he took. John had obeyed for once without be compelled, why would he do that? What piece of the puzzle had Sherlock got now? Up and up and up and up...

It was pure relief to step into the workshop, within walls closely written with _secret_ and _safe._ Echoes of his own magic buoyed him up and helped dispel the enchantment, but of course he'd gotten distracted from the actual poison during the process. It had spread through his blood unchecked, gumming up his muscles, clogging his brain, and he was barely aware of John setting him down on the old, leather-upholstered couch as he fought to purge himself.

He dragged his eyes open, but all he could see was John, standing over him and staring with a sort of sick fascination. "I suppose," Sherlock managed to rasp, "this means your freedom."

John didn't reply to that before Sherlock was subsumed by darkness.

-\\-\\-\\-\\-\\-

He was left adrift for some time afterward—hours, days. Awareness came and went, leaving dribs and drabs of data: the smell of candles, the sound of pouring water, John's voice from a long way off. Pain, but he expected pain; the feeling of nervous fingers against his skin.

When Sherlock awoke properly, the windows of his workshop were bright with sunlight, and he lay naked under a blanket on the leather couch. John was sound asleep on the floor by his feet, propped against the couch in a half-sitting position. The moment he began to move, John awoke, and sat up straight to watch Sherlock stretch. "Hello," Sherlock said to him. "How long as I unconscious?"

"Couple days," John said, staring earnestly. "You were dying."

The certainty with which John said that was intriguing. Sherlock looked at his left palm, where the dart had gone in, and found a bandage; under it was an incision that was beginning to heal. "Who drew the poison?" he asked.

"Who do you think?" John said irately. "Mrs. Hudson and the others couldn't even smell it."

Sherlock stared at him for several long minutes, trying to put pieces together despite the residual fug of illness in his brain. "Where did you learn to read?" he asked.

John looked away from him, but Sherlock had enough strength to drag the answer out. "A village," he snapped. "St. Bartholomew."

So he'd lived among humans before, but not for long—long enough to learn to read, not long enough to learn how to pass in the skin he put on. And he'd taught himself enough medicine to diagnose Sherlock, draw the poison and dress the wound, all from a few weeks of lurking in the library. "You are truly extraordinary," Sherlock said honestly, and John went red in the face and left very quickly.

He came back with a basin and towels and a basket over his elbow. "You smell bad," he informed Sherlock, and offered him a flannel. The basket turned out to contain bread and honey, and a stoppered bottle of broth, which Sherlock availed himself of first. John left the room again as soon as Sherlock threw the blanket off to wash.

Mrs. Hudson was, of course, elated to see Sherlock up and about (less so to see him naked, but she'd put up with worse). John had to help Sherlock down to his bedroom, though, and there was something there in the way he fumbled with Sherlock's dressing gown, about the way he held himself as Sherlock slung and arm around his neck, that felt like the last piece of the puzzle. Sherlock fell asleep turning it over in his mind, and awoke with the answer fully formed like a goddess or a miracle.

Of course it required experimental confirmation, but honestly, it was so perfectly right he could weep.

-\\-\\-\\-\\-

He could've summoned John to his bedside with a thought, but he made himself wait, so as not to put John on his guard. In the meantime, of course, there was Mycroft, or as John put it, "The brother is here—d'you want to throw him out now or later?"

Sherlock, distracted by his own concerns, had to ask, "What brother are you talking about?"

"The one that's always here," John said. "Mycroft, the one you hate."

"Oh." John's speech had heretofore been flawless, and Sherlock found the error puzzling. "Mycroft is _my_ brother, John, not just any brother."

John gave him a strangely blank look, as if he couldn't sense a distinction. "Okay."

Sherlock leaned forward, now curious. "John. Are dragons not hatched in clutches?"

"Of course," John said warily, like he wasn't sure of the point of the question.

"And what do dragons from the same clutch call each other?"

"...other dragons?"

Fascinating. Another puzzle piece. "Send Mycroft up and be prepared to see him right back out again."

Mycroft was full of nattering from the queen—gratitude, Sherlock, a landed title, Sherlock, _dull--_ but then he changed the topic to one of more relevance. "Your 'man' there is quite fascinating, isn't he?"

"So you noticed," Sherlock said; he supposed it was too much to hope that Mycroft would miss the thickness of spells written into the collar or comprehend its significance.

Mycroft set his tea aside and steepled his fingers. "Really, Sherlock, keeping a dragon as a catamite is perhaps the only thing more audacious than riding around on one."

Sherlock snorted, even as wondered, _On what basis do you conclude I've already fucked him?_ "And what would you know about catamites, Mycroft?" he asked aloud.

"I know that the Church frowns upon them, though I suppose somewhat less so than bestiality," he shot back.

"And what have they do say on the subject of murder?" Sherlock asked. "Or do they condone the queen's plan to purge the mountains?"

Mycroft chuckled. "As it happens, I've managed to convince Her Majesty to send...a sort of embassy, I suppose. Attempt to reason with the creatures before we resort to bloodshed."

"I hope they come back in identifiable pieces," Sherlock replied quite seriously.

"In all earnestness, Sherlock." Mycroft leaned forward. "This...being, it is not human. You mustn't convince yourself it is."

"I think," Sherlock said, "John is far closer to human than even he realizes."

-\\-\\-\\-\\-

Once Sherlock had his strength back, there was no further excuse to put it off. He sent Mrs. Hudson out of the house on errands and locked all the doors; then he sought out John.

The library, of course; he spent more time there than anywhere else. He sat on the floor, book braced against his knees, and followed the words with one finger. Occasionally his lips moved, but no sound came out. Sherlock watched him for over fifteen minutes before John noticed he was there. "Oh. Did you want something?"

"You could say that," Sherlock replied.

He kept still, kept watching as John considered this reply: as he set the book aside and climbed to his feet, shoulders square and back straight. But for the first time in weeks, his chin wasn't raised in knee-jerk defiance. Just waiting. Sherlock's move.

He stepped further into the library and pushed the door shut behind him. "Dragons aren't particularly social creatures, are you?"

"We're voracious carnivores, so no, not very," John replied, watching Sherlock carefully.

"You leave the nest almost immediately," Sherlock observed, walking around behind John, who didn't move. "No kinship bonds, parental or filial. Even when males form a colony for mutual protection, you spend as much time squabbling for dominance as sharing kills. You do not mate for pleasure and do not pair-bond after mating."

John's shoulder twitched fractionally. "What's your point?" he asked, voice going husky.

Sherlock willed John to stillness, and then he gently ran his knuckles up John's spine, raising gooseflesh in his wake. John made a choked noise in response. "The only times dragon touch one another is to cause pain," Sherlock murmured into his ear. "But you're not in your dragon skin now. The human body is capable of such pleasure—and doesn't that just scare the _hell_ out of you?"

John didn't answer, not in words; but when Sherlock fanned his fingers over his ribs a little shiver ran up John's whole body. He pressed himself against John from behind, stroking broadly up his chest, letting his fingers catch on his nipples until they stood out stiffly. "What do you want, John?" Sherlock asked.

"S-stop," John said weakly, but he wasn't trying to flee—not that Sherlock would let him, of course. "Please."

"Don't be tedious," Sherlock asked, and dropped a hand to the front of John's trousers to cup his swelling cock. John made a high-pitched noise and squirmed in place, as if he wasn't sure what to do with the sensation, and his thighs began to quiver as Sherlock rubbed his thumb against the head through coarse wool. "This is new to you, so of course you're frightened of it, you want it to stop. But what frightens you even more is how good it feels, how much you _want_ it, even though you think you shouldn't. From the moment you changed, you've let me touch you and then run away, but that wasn't just for me, was? You were punishing yourself, for being all too human.

"There's nothing to be frightened of, John. You can want this. You can _have_ this."

John was shaking now, head thrown back against Sherlock's shoulder as Sherlock stroked him through his trousers; he didn't thrust his hips, but his mouth was wide and gasping, and when he opened his eyes to look into Sherlock's they were blown black, with hardly any trace of gold. Sherlock raised his other hand to John's throat, tugging one of the collar's d-rings, and John came like that, with a groaning growl.

"Gorgeous," Sherlock said, pressing his nose against the hot, scarred shoulder.

John swallowed hard, and said, "Please," but didn't follow up with anything. Reluctantly, Sherlock stepped away from him, giving him physical and metaphorical space. John raked a hand through his hair and stammered, "I—I don't--"

"You may move now if you wish," Sherlock said, reluctantly (but he'd anticipated this reaction, it was always a possibility, he'd planned for it;) _"But._ I forbid you to masturbate."

John's echo was breathy, incredulous. "Master- _what?"_

Ah. Another things dragons in the wild didn't do, apparently. Sherlock discharged the last of the power holding John in place. "You'll know what it is when you try it."

John didn't even respond to this; just fled.

-\\-\\-\\-\\-

The unfortunate part of this plan was that Sherlock had to wait for John to make the next move, and even though that move was inevitable, the actual waiting was impossibly dull. Fortunately, the backers of the ill-fated royal assassin turned out to be powerful wizards in and of themselves, and the process of chasing them across the continent was very nearly a suitable distraction.

Very nearly; and it was telling that even in the thick of the investigation, while he was writing a circle or chasing a shadow or arguing with the pack of idiots Gregson had saddled him with for help—even when there were a thousand other things clamoring for his attention, Sherlock found John was slipping into his thoughts. Things like: _Dear God, John would be less conspicuous than these fools,_ or _If he opens his mouth one more time I shall have John bite him._ Sometimes just a nameless longing to see John back in his dragon's skin, to climb on his back and ride away into the starlight and leave these infuriating apes behind.

That had been the point of all this from the beginning, of course: the tame dragon, the flying mount. It would simply be a glorious addition if he could bring John with him when he worked, utilize his unexpected bursts of intelligence and odd moments of naivety as well as his wings and teeth. And then home, into his bed, if could have John trembling and gasping like he'd been in the library, a continuous raw nerve of wanting, naked but for his collar...

Well. It was a good thing that none of Sherlock's so-called "help" had the nerve to share a room with him, and that the sorcerers, when they were eventually caught, died quickly.

Sherlock was spent, magically, by the confrontation, and hadn't taken the time to prepare a circle before leaving Baker Street; it took two and a half irritating days to make his way home by more mundane means. Mrs. Hudson greeting him in her usual effusive style when he finally got back. "Running out the door at all hours, it's no good for your health, dear—look at you, I bet you haven't eaten a bite today—go on, sit down, I'll be back with some tea...."

"How has John been in my absence?" he asked. Now that he was back he could sense John's presence through the collar, but he was lurking up in his bedroom, not coming down to throw himself at Sherlock's feet as planned. Perhaps a three-week jaunt across the continent hadn't been enough time to break down John's phenomenal stubbornness.

"He's been in a proper sulk," Mrs. Hudson informed him as she set the tea tray down. "Spends all that time on the roof like a bloody gargoyle, off his food—I even brought him a nice fresh leg of lamb and he hardly picked at it. And you wouldn't believe the sort of questions he's been asking!"

Sherlock grinned at her. "Oh, I've some idea."

Mrs. Hudson had known Sherlock far longer and far better than anyone in the city except Mycroft, and thus was at complete liberty to swat him with a tea towel. "Go on, you. Whatever you're up to with that one, he doesn't deserve it. He's a nice boy."

"He is a dragon who has assumed human form," Sherlock told her, just to see how she'd react.

"But a _nice_ dragon," she asserted. "Now drink your tea."

Sherlock savored the tea and picked at one of Mrs. Hudson's sandwiches before anticipation won out over patience. He could greet John, perhaps even talk to him, without giving into any carnal urges...he was, after all, a terribly powerful wizard with a will of iron. Just say a few words, a little taunting, a little tempting...the plan would still work as long as John came to him on his own. It didn't mean that he couldn't enjoy the process of watching John break.

He took the stairs up to John's room two at a time, and didn't bother knocking before he opened the door. The room still looked more or less like it always had—bare, utilitarian, as close to dusty as Mrs. Hudson would allow. John looked, more or less, like he always did—sitting on the floor, naked, and tan in spite of the long winter. "I'm back for the foreseeable future," was what Sherlock intended to say.

What he actually said was "I'mmm _mmmph!"_ because the instant he saw him John launched himself at Sherlock like a bolt from a bow. He was able to push Sherlock flat against the wall beside the door, and obviously he wasn't attacking—he _couldn't_ attack, the collar wouldn't let him move at all if there was malicious intent behind it—but for a minute Sherlock wasn't entirely certain what John _was_ doing: sort of pushing his face against Sherlock's own, mouth open, awkwardly nuzzling and licking at him, while at the same time pressing the rest of his body close enough to climb inside Sherlock's coat.

Sherlock managed to push him back, using his own willpower when it was clear John's alone wouldn't suffice to keep him still. "John. What _are_ you doing?"

"I—" John's face was flushed, and he grimaced. "I saw people in the street doing it. It looked...good."

And he'd been thinking about it for three whole weeks and he was totally, completely, _shattered:_ mostly hard just from Sherlock's presence, eyes blown wide and breath coming fast and deep. If Sherlock hadn't used the collar to keep him still he'd have thrown himself forward again in an instant. Sherlock very carefully shut the door, and with a lump of chalk from his coat pocket wrote a rune to keep it firmly locked. After another minute, he added a rune for silence, for Mrs. Hudson's sake.

Then he turned to John, grinning widely. "Have you thought any further about what you want?" he asked, low and taunting.

John shut his eyes. "I...I want."

 _"What_ do you want?" Sherlock pressed, and John just growled, hands spasming at his sides. "I believe I told you to speak when you're spoken to."

"I want. To _feel."_ John swallowed and opened his eyes again. "That. In the library. What you did."

Sherlock shrugged off his coat and hung it in the wardrobe (empty but for John's crumpled trousers and a neat stack of unused towels). "What about it?"

"It was...I _want_ it."

"I'm afraid," Sherlock said as he rolled up his shirtsleeves, "you're going to have to be more specific."

John made another noise—not a growl, more of a keening sound, as if language had failed him completely. Sherlock was still standing just inches away, easily in arm's reach if John had wanted to reach for him; instead, John dropped to his knees, throwing himself forward a few extra inches. The shift in position allowed him to press his face against Sherlock's belly, panting and sweating, utterly shameless.

 _"Oh."_ Sherlock immediately dug one hand into John's hair, holding him there for a moment, dizzy with glorious desire. Even when he was utterly predictable, John could be surprising. "This is what you want, then?"

"Please," John murmured, muffled by the fabric of Sherlock's trousers.

Sherlock combed his fingers through John's hair, scratching lightly at his scalp, and watched tremors work their way through that beautiful body. John was completely helpless against touch, against anything that wasn't pain, and there was nothing more beautiful in the world. "Up, on the bed," Sherlock told him, and after a moment’s hesitation John peeled himself away and obeyed.

He didn't seem to know whether to lie down on his side or crouch on the corner like a looming buzzard; Sherlock had to coax him into lying stretched out on his back, and to cross his hands at the wrist over his head. No actual restraints, not even the force of the collar; but John held the position on his own, fingers clenching around the roundels of the headboard. Sherlock rewarded him for it by rubbing his belly in gentle circles, and John arched his back into the touch. "What are you thinking right now, John?"

"I hate you," he sighed, eyelids drooping.

"That seems a bit harsh," Sherlock chided without stopping.

"You _left,"_ John grumbled.

Sherlock grinned at him. "And did you discover what masturbation was?"

John turned his face away, but Sherlock decided to allow it for now. Instead he let his hand drift lower, past John's cock (so red, so wet) to gently squeeze his balls. They were heavy in his hand, so _full_ —"Good God, no wonder you're desperate," Sherlock said, as John squirmed under his touch. "You must've been hard for the entire time I was gone."

"I r-really don't think that p-p-possible," John stammered.

"Hmm. An ideas for later, though." He decided to be merciful, just this once, and murmured the words to conjure a bowl of fragrant oil in his hand. Though considering how much pre-come had already dripped down his shaft, additional lubrication might not even be necessary. "Look at me, John."

John turned again to face him, eyes dark and hooded, and Sherlock kept eye contact as he began to stroke John with one oiled hand. John's mouth fell open, and he pushed up into Sherlock's hand, lost for words again; just wide-open vowel sounds, getting deeper and louder, until his eyes rolled into the back of his head and his back arched up off the sheets, a perfect curve from shoulders to heels. He seemed to come forever, spilling over Sherlock's hand and his own belly, and Sherlock kept pulling gently until John began to stammer, "Please—please—"

"Please what?" Sherlock asked.

John tossed his head on the pillow; his hands were still in place, but clenched into fists. "Too much."

Sherlock laughed at that. "My dear, we've hardly even begun." John looked vaguely horrified at the thought, but in deference to his overstimulated nerves Sherlock stopped stroking him and began to lick and kiss instead, starting with a drop of semen in the crease of his thigh and working his way up John's body. Considering how oversensitive John was to even casual touch, this was a very small mercy, and he was panting and moaning again by the time Sherlock made his way to the edge of the collar.

He was laying stretched out alongside John's body now, so their heads were level with one another. "Now, as to your earlier experiment: the people you observed on the street were _kissing,_ and you are extraordinarily bad at it."

"So show me," John sighed, and even if it was half-sarcastic, he was turning his face to Sherlock's and raising his chin. _Could this creature be any more perfect?_ Sherlock thought wondrously, and he was smiling again as he began to press his lips to John's.

Once again, John proved to be a delightfully adept learner. He opened his mouth readily, letting Sherlock inside, and followed his lead with lips and tongue. Sherlock was not usually particularly interested in kissing, but he could've spent hours on John's mouth alone, analyzing every reaction, savoring the not-quite-human taste of him. When John began writhing against the sheets, Sherlock reached down without looking and discovered that he was already mostly hard again, despite coming just minutes ago.

John thrust awkwardly up into Sherlock's grip and growled when Sherlock released him. "No," Sherlock said. "I think I'd like to conduct an experiment."

"Can't you do it another time?" John asked, practically whining.

"This is perhaps the best time," Sherlock said, and raised one still-slick hand to John's chest, playing with each of his nipples in turn. John arched into the touch, and sought a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss from Sherlock, but Sherlock trailed off to the side, nipping at his earlobe and leaving sucking kisses on the tender skin of his throat, just above the collar. Then down to his clavicle, the exquisite curvature of bone and muscle, and John was moaning almost constantly now as Sherlock swirled a slick finger into his navel before moving lower...past his cock, below his balls, to knead the strip of skin behind them, stroking all the way back and then forward again.

John actually seemed to stop breathing for a moment, but the way he spread his legs and bent one knee was as good as all the begging in the world. Sherlock deliberately avoided too much stimulation of his anus—yet—and lowered his mouth to the same nipple he'd been toying with earlier, tugging on it with his teeth. John jolted when his cock brushed accidentally against Sherlock's wrist, and Sherlock raised his mouth just enough to ask, "What do you want?"

For a few minutes John simply panted, still bucking his hips in time with Sherlock's fingers. "More," was the first intelligible word to get past his lips, "more, please, anything..."

"Anything?" Sherlock asked, pressing down harder.

"Anything, yes, please!" John's voice cracked on the last syllable. At the same time, a steady tremor began to build in the muscles of his inner thighs, and Sherlock could feel his balls drawing up against his body. He was going to come again with any stimulation of his cock at all. Remarkable.

"Come for me," Sherlock murmured in his ear, never letting up the motion of his fingers. "Come for me, right now, just like this. Show me how much you love it, just how badly you want this. Give this to me, come on, give in..."

John cried out like he was being murdered and came again, hips jerking long after he stopped ejaculating: Sherlock kissed him through it, and then pulled John's trembling hands away from the headboard to fold across his chest. "Are you all right?" he asked, curious as to how John would answer.

It seemed to take a minute for John to find words, and when he did his voice was hoarse. "How can you _stand_ it?" he asked, almost at the level of a whisper. "How do you...all the time...it's too _much!"_

"I suppose it's different for those of us born to it," Sherlock said, running his nails lightly down John's bicep. The muscle jumped and John let out a sobbing noise, and if Sherlock didn't get up off the bed this very instant he would be the one coming untouched in his trousers.

He took off his shirt, letting the cool air of the room dry the sweat that had collected on his skin; unzipped his trousers to relieve the pressure on his erection, but left them on. John was watching him, eyes half-lidded but alert, and his gaze kept dipping to Sherlock's cock in a predictable fashion. Sherlock conjured more oil, in a delicate glass vial, and filled the washstand by the window with steaming water. He brought a towel from the cupboard and hung it over the foot of the bed.

"How exactly is this going to work?" John asked; his voice was still hoarse but he appeared to have rallied.

"You'll have to be more specific, John," Sherlock said. There was something endearing about the way John stammered and stuttered, when he was usually so coolly assured.

"You..." John paused, searching for words. "You mounting me."

Sherlock smiled. "Turn over, on your front. I'll show you."

John rolled over, and let Sherlock take the pillow from under his head to position under his hips. Sherlock started with long, open handed strokes, from his back to his thighs, and John responded just like before, shivering and sighing; slowly Sherlock narrowed his focus and increased the pressure, until he was kneading John's arse, John subtly pushing up into the touch. "Oh!" he blurted when Sherlock began to trace the cleft.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Just like that."

"I don't--" John shoulders had gone tight. "I don't think—does that even work?"

Sherlock paused, and leaned forward to kiss John's shoulders and his apprehensive frown. "I assure you, it works quite well," he murmured. "You'll enjoy this."

"Is that a promise or a threat?" John murmured.

Sherlock just grinned at him.

He pushed John's knees apart and spread his cheeks, just touching with dry fingers for now. Here, too, John was nearly hairless, and tightly puckered; Sherlock circled just a finger around his entrance, and the placed a closed-mouth kiss on it. "You need to relax," he murmured.

John made a weak chuckling noise, that turned into something a little more choked when Sherlock began to lick him open: swirling his tongue around the perimeter first, then lapping over the hole. He could read the effect in the clench and shift of John's back muscles, the moaning he tried to suppress. Fighting back again. Trying not to want this.

Sherlock made his tongue into a little point and pushed, not even fully breaching the muscle, but John yelped anyway and bucked his hips so hard he nearly hit Sherlock in the face. "No," John said, voice quavering. "Not that."

Sherlock sat up again, putting his weight on John's hips. "Does it not feel pleasurable?"

"I don't want it," John said, which in its own way was an answer.

Sherlock reached for the oil and dipped his fingers into it, but didn't touch him, just let the excess drip off and land on John's skin. "I thought we'd established," Sherlock said, "that you _do_ want it. That you're so very desperate for it that you threw yourself at me the moment I walked in. There really isn't any logic in changing course two orgasms in."

"That was different," John protested, but his resolve seemed to be cracking.

"Because it was my hands and not my cock?" Sherlock asked. He resumed touching John, spreading the oil around without trying to get inside again. "You seem to have missed an important element, John, but then again, this is hardly your area."

"What," John managed to squeeze out, even as he squirmed in place, "what'd I miss?"

"Did you think I was doing all this out of malice? Charity?" First finger in, now, just the tip, but he could already tell that John was far too tight. "You are perhaps the most gorgeous creature I've ever seen, in either of your shapes, but the moment I saw your human skin I knew I wouldn't be satisfied with merely taming you. I would've had you like this on the cellar floor right there if I'd been content with that. And you would've let me, I think, even then—you were already in love with the sensation of touch."

John didn't reply to that; his face had gone red and he was gripping at the headboard of the bed with white knuckles. But not dropping his arms; not trying to flee. And not contradicting a word Sherlock said.

"You are perfect," Sherlock continued, stroking gently in an out, coating John generously with the oil. "I don't use the word lightly. Intelligent, unpredictable, attractive...and so sensitive." He let his finger brush against John's prostate, and John whined helplessly. "And you came to me, you asked me for this, and I am giving you exactly what both of us wanted. So it's a bit late to back down now, of all times. This will be good, I promise you. But you have to let me in."

And, amazingly, with a bit of a sigh, John parted his thighs a little wider and did just that. Sherlock's heart leapt, and he pressed a kiss onto John's tailbone as he began to work another finger in. It was easier, but still not easy; John wasn't resisting, but he was still so very tight. A virgin, technically, he supposed. It would take ages to stretch him to a point where Sherlock could take him comfortably.

Of course, they had the rest of the day, and Sherlock had not become a sorcerer by giving up easily.

He kept applying more oil, periodically lowering his head to lick and kiss at the red, stretched skin around his fingers, while John's breathing got ever more labored. By the time Sherlock was able to get the third finger in, John was also hard again, and every accidental (and not-so-accidental) contact with his prostate made him cry out and clench down reflexively. "Perfect," Sherlock murmured again, feathering kissing up his spine. "So good. Open up for me, John. Let me have this."

John dropped down onto his elbows, pushing his arse even higher in the air. "Sherlock, please, just...just do it."

"Not yet, I think."

 _"Sherlock,"_ and there was a frantic edge in John's voice, something new, something glorious. "I can't, you have to...it's too much, I can't do this, I _can't."_

"You keep saying that, you know," Sherlock said, pulling his fingers out partway so he could rub his thumb against John's reddened rim. "And you're consistently wrong."

Then plunged in again, aiming a direct stroke up John's prostate, using his other hand to pull down on John's balls just hard enough to stave off orgasm. John yelled, then drew in a shaky breath, and said in a raw, low voice, "Now, _please."_

He was still dangerously tight around Sherlock's fingers, but that voice was hard to resist. Sherlock pulled his fingers out, admiring how the muscle twitched but couldn't quite return to its original shape. He put more oil on his own aching prick, enough to drip with it, and lined up the head with John's body. "As you wish," he reminded John, and pushed in.

He'd been right about stretching; John's whole body tensed, and Sherlock hissed through his teeth at the muscles that clamped around the head of his cock. It was almost too tight, and there was no way John could take this without pain, and that was entirely beside the point of the whole damned exercise: John knew pain, John could _endure_ pain, it was only pleasure that broken him apart. There had to be another way to make him relax--

 _"Oh,"_ Sherlock blurted, when it came to him all at once. Like the dragons in the mountain, weeks ago— _obvious._ He stretched out over John's back, as far as he was able, and spoke the word that let the collar peel back from his neck. Before John could register what had happened, Sherlock bit down, hard, on the back of his neck, high near his hairline. He tasted of sweat and magic and leather and that mysterious hint of dragon, and Sherlock bit with nearly enough pressure to draw blood.

The effect was instantaneous. John let out a broken, sobbing, cry, but the tension also drained out of him, and Sherlock was able to push in all the way, balls-deep in John's body. He let up and began to lick and kiss the mark he'd made, not thrusting yet; John's squirming was more than enough stimulation for the moment. "Too much?" he murmured into John's ear.

 _"Yes,"_ John hissed, panting.

Sherlock kissed his neck one last time. "Good."

He was gentle, of course; short, leisurely strokes, sitting back on his heels so he could watch himself slide in and out. John rocked weakly under him, though he really didn't have the leverage to thrust up; he was rubbing off on the pillow under him, hands clawing spastically at the sheets, voice cracking on every moan. Sherlock leaned forward again, to kiss and nip at his neck some more, and the change in angle allowed him to hit John's prostate on every other stroke.

"Can you come again?" Sherlock asked him.

John just groaned, beyond speech.

"Mmm." Sherlock bit again, more gently, at the same spot as before, and John shuddered. "I think you can. I think you will." He pushed John's hips higher, forcing him up on his knees, and sped his thrusts. "Oh. _Oh._ Come for me, John, just like this."

John groaned something that might've been Sherlock's name, and started to snap his hips up in earnest, driving Sherlock's cock deeper into him. Sherlock, feeling merciful, reached around to take John in hand, alternating strokes along his length with swipes of this thumb across the wet head. The third time he puts his teeth to John's neck—not even biting down, just a hard scrape—John came, every muscle in his body spasming around Sherlock's cock.

Sherlock couldn't help but follow, not after holding out so long himself. He pulled out reluctantly, and called the towel to his hand to quickly wipe up the residue of oil and semen that coated them both. John simply collapsed onto his front, breathing heavily, and his eyelashes were wet. He didn't protest when Sherlock ran a thumb over his lower lip. "There. You enjoyed that, didn't you?"

John's sigh was so loud Sherlock could just barely make out a defeated, "Yes."

The water on the washstand had cooled to the perfect temperature, just as he'd anticipated, and with a fresh flannel Sherlock cleaned himself, and then John, who by now was sliding into exhausted sleep. He didn't resist in the slightest as Sherlock turned him over, and only gave a slight unhappy whimper at the feeling of the warm cloth on his reddened cock. He seemed bemused when Sherlock came back to the bed after putting the wet towels away, and once again curled up against him. "Can't," he murmured drowsily. "Really, really can't."

Sherlock chuckled, and scratched lightly at John's hair. "It's all right. Just sleep."

John mumbled something else unintelligible, and gave another sigh—smaller, more content—when Sherlock threw an arm over his chest. The collar had, at some point, fallen on the floor; Sherlock was in no hurry to cover up John's neck again, and now that they'd shared this, he doubted he needed any greater hold over him. He lay alongside his dragon for a long time, watching him sleep.

-\\-\\-\\-\\-\\-

The one little window had gone dim but not dark when Sherlock noticed the door handle jiggling; of course, with the silence rune on it, he couldn't hear anyone calling for him. Reluctantly, he disentangled himself from John's sleepy heat, smudged out the runes and opened the door. "What?"

Fortunately for Mrs. Hudson, she was quite used to being confronted with a nude and belligerent Sherlock; she tutted at him once before averting her eyes. "It's your brother, dear, he's come to see you and he says it's urgent. I told him not to bother you when you've only just got back--"

Sherlock shut the door on her and sighed. No doubt Mycroft wanted to discuss the assassination plot, and could be just as stubborn as Sherlock, if not moreso. He stepped into his trousers again and slipped out of the room, hoping to quickly give Mycroft the minimum necessary to make him go way.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at Sherlock's state of undress, but didn't rise from his chair in the lounge. "Ah. Sherlock. So sorry to interrupt your...celebrations."

"No, you aren't," Sherlock said, flopping down on the couch. "And they're all dead, by the way, and too powerless to come back even if they weren't afraid I'd be waiting for them."

Mycroft's face twisted into a delicate moue of confusion for a moment, then cleared. "Oh, the _sorcerers?_ Yes, yes, well done, I'm sure her majesty will reward you appropriately for it—or at least try to. But there are more pressing matters at hand."

"Are there?" Sherlock asked, wondering what Mycroft could possibly think Sherlock would be interested in.

"The embassy to the dragons has returned," he said. Paused. "One them even survived."

"And thus the queen intends to drive them away by force of arms." Sherlock peered at him, trying to work out the angle here. "Yet _my_ dragon is quite secure, so you wouldn't be telling me this unless there will be additional measures in place."

"The climate in the court is...hostile," Mycroft said delicately. "If you are know to own a tame dragon here in the heart of the capital, there will be consequences."

Sherlock scoffed. "Oh, what? The queen will stop offering me knighthoods every time I save her wrinkly arse?"

"You overestimate the queen's affection," he answered severely. "Which do not extend to John. Nor mine, come to think of it."

Sherlock sat up, the words for fire and lightening on the tip of his tongue. "You wouldn't dare."

"Not unless I am pushed to it," Mycroft snapped. "Think very carefully, Sherlock. Your household will shortly include the only dragon left within our borders, and while I'm sure that appears greatly to your sense of drama, it puts you at a supreme personal risk. Not to mention it's hardly fair to the dragon in question."

"What would you have me do, then?" Sherlock asked frostily. "Turn him out on the street? Kill him myself?"

"I won't presume to issue an ultimatum, Sherlock," Mycroft said airily. "I merely wanted to ensure that you were aware of the facts of the situation. John's mere presence will be perceived as an insult to good men and women who died, and however powerful you think yourself, you cannot stand up to an entire kingdom if you are found out. And there will always be other dragons."

"Get out," Sherlock snarled, and for once Mycroft actually did as he was told. The warning was meaningless, anyway...it would take some coaching, but John could pass for a human well enough, and it wasn't as if dragons' shape-changing ability was well-known. No, all Sherlock had to do was put a shirt on him and keep him in this skin for a few months, until the idiocy had passed...and there were certainly plenty of ways to keep him distracted until then...

He wouldn't waste any more time on the matter. Bounding back up the stairs, Sherlock made for John's room, frowning when he saw the door ajar. He had closed it when he stepped out, and Mrs. Hudson had no reason to go inside; John might've gotten up to go to the toilet or seek out a drink, though he'd been deeply asleep when Sherlock left. When Sherlock pushed the door fully open, his eyes registered three things almost instantly:

The wide-open wardrobe, bare of John's trousers and Sherlock's coat.

The wide-open window, which faced the alley between houses.

The leather collar neatly spread out over the pillow.

The silence was nearly deafening, and Sherlock could not recall the last time he'd felt quite so disappointed, much less in himself.

-\\-\\-\\-\\-\\-

The campaign against the dragons, according to all sources, went splendidly for everyone who wasn't a fire-breathing thermopod. The king sent a mixture of mountain cavalry and heavy infantry, liberally reinforced with sorcerers and alchemists, and the dragons were still sluggish after the long winter. Some were clever enough to flee across the borders, but evidently none were clever enough to organize; the expedition simple overwhelmed dragons one and two at a time, and no conspecifics ever rushed to their aid.

Dragons weren't social creatures, after all. Dragons did not form emotional bonds.

Sherlock caught a serial killer and banished a major demon and drank tea and read books and ignored Mrs. Hudson's doting lamb-eyes and was not lonely. He burned the collar in a fit of pique and regretted it afterward. He refused to acknowledge Mycroft's existence for two solid weeks and communicated with him entirely in writing for another four.

He watched the victory parades, the mutilated, rotting dragon corpses paraded through the streets like trophies. He watched every single one.

Sherlock wasn't worried, and he certainly wasn't waiting for anything.

-\\-\\-\\-\\-

He routinely left his bedroom windows open in the spring, not out of any affection for the allegedly "fresh" air but because it was less boring: he could lay in the darkness and listen to the sounds of the city, deducing the rounds of the ash-men and the lamp-lighters and the shop-keepers from the noises they made. The crowd at the pub down the street ebbed and flowed, his neighbors—those courageous enough to live near a notorious sorcerer—came and went. He heard laughter, indistinct voices, distinct patterns of footfalls that drifted and dwindled as the night drew on.

A heavy, rhythmic swishing sound. A distant scream.

The sound of shingles being ripped of his own roof.

Sherlock leapt to his window, nearly leapt _out_ of it: in the dim light from the street, he could just see a great, heavy shape clinging to the edge of the roof across the garden, wings thrashing. As he watched, another patch of shingles broke free, and the massive shape fell to the ground with a deafening screech.

Sherlock did leap out the window, then, barely remembering the runes to gentle his fall. The garden was a closed courtyard, totally invisible from the street, but there were already witnesses...he called fire in his hand, a quick and dirty way of bringing light, as he fell to his knees in front of the familiar, brass-colored dragon that had crashed to the earth.

John looked thin and starved, with open wounds—slashes, burns—on his flanks and neck. His claws were caked with dirt and blood, and the web of one wing had been slit nearly to the frame. Sherlock put his hand on John's muzzle, just below the forward edge of the scute, and those great golden eyes fluttered open.

"You chose a peculiar time to come back," he said breathlessly.

John whimpered once, and then sudden it was a human face under his hand, an abused human body lying in the dirt. "There's nowhere else to go," John whispered, and nuzzled his face into Sherlock's touch.

-\\-\\-\\-\\-\\-

-\\-\\-\\-\\-\\-

Sherlock pulled the chain from the forge with tongs, searching for any flaws in the metal before it cooled too much. Each link was a smooth oval, half-twisted, with a chip of blue-green stone set into the center; it was heavy in his hand, alive with a magic more permanent than any rune written into stone or metal could be. Quenching it with water made to cool enough to handle through his thick gloves, and he threw off his goggles, impatient to show off his handiwork.

The country house had been costly to purchase, but it was pleasant enough, and he supposed it might make a good place to retire someday, should he live so long. Mrs. Hudson enjoyed the quiet and the country air, for a change, and it was sufficiently far from the village to conceal a multitude of sins.

John lay in the garden, wings spread out to catch the summer sun, but he perked his head up when he saw Sherlock approaching with the chain. "I have something for you," Sherlock said showing it off for John's perusal. The verdict: a snort of hot, chemical-scented breath to the face. "Well, I wasn't going to forge it full-sized, you idiot. Go on, I want to see it on you."

John changed, still laying naked on his front in the grass; he rose up on his knees and cocked his head to the side. "I take it this one's going to stretch?"

"Among its many useful properties," Sherlock assured him. The chain was a solid loop with no clasp, just a bit too small to slip over John's head; Sherlock used magic to pass it straight through his neck and settle it there. He didn't seem bothered by the heat of the metal, as he reached up to finger this new bit of jewelry. "What do you think?"

"Heavy," he said, and then suddenly changed again, back to his full size. The chain grew with him, still fit snugly about the base of his neck, and it didn't slide around when he took a short, experiment trot.

"Can you fly?" Sherlock asked; John looked at him with narrowed eyes. "It's a valid question; if the chain is too heavy--"

Before he finished the question, John spread his wings again and launched himself. In the heat of the day it was easy for him to catch the rising waves of hot air and coast higher and higher, scales gleaming golden-brown in the sunlight. The villagers wouldn't report a dragon sighting, if they even noticed him; Sherlock had been careful to curry their favor to that end. They were safe here until John was fully recovered, until the city had forgotten about the slaughter of the dragons.

("They mostly just left," John had told him, as Sherlock cleaned and dressed his wounds. "I warned as many as I could and they took off for new territory."

"An advantage of having little material culture and a large wingspan, I suppose," Sherlock had commented.

John had nodded. "And easier than getting a load of dragons to agree on anything.")

Sherlock watched John climb higher as he peeled off his gloves; then he took from his pocket the ring he had made, a match for the chain, with the same blue-green stone set in the center. He slipped it on his left hand, and set his will through it. _Come back._

The small, bright speck in the sky hovered a few moments more, before descending in lazy circles. John transformed just before he touched down, landing gracefully on one knee, and immediately felt for the collar, which was back to its original size. "You called me," he said, looking puzzled.

"Of course I did," Sherlock said, showing him the ring. "I can also locate you, and the collar provides a limited sort of defense against most types of sorcery, should you be attacked while we're apart."

John snorted. "Oh, you're not paranoid at all."

Sherlock dropped a hand onto his head, weaving fingers into his hair, and John's eyes fluttered shut. "I take care of what's mine," Sherlock said earnestly.

John leaned forward to rest his cheek against Sherlock's hip. "Mmmm. So I'm your dragon, am I?"

"Naturally."

"Does that mean you're my sorcerer?"

Sherlock ran his thumb over the faded bruise at the base of John's neck. "The one and only."

"Good," John said, and pressed a kiss against Sherlock's belly through his clothes.

-FIN-

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Fanart based on "How to tame your dragon"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/388305) by [PapayaTwilight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PapayaTwilight/pseuds/PapayaTwilight)




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